


Rassvet|Daybreak

by Deus_Ex



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Everything, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Author Can't Tag, Bucky Barnes's Backpack, Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Cryofreeze (Marvel), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hydra (Marvel), Jealousy, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, One-Sided Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Past Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, T'Challa (Marvel) Is a Good Bro, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Tony Stark is not a good bro, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: "You know if they find out he's here...they'll come for him.""Let them try."They tried.---------Waking up quickly has never served the Winter Soldier well; Bucky Barnes is no different.  Having Steve there this time makes it somewhat easier; a new arm helps, too.  But a phone call from Tony doesn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to get this all done in one go, but in the plot twist of the century, I couldn't control myself. So, here's the multi-chapter I didn't know I wanted the whole time. I don't know where it's going. It's like a roller coaster in the dark. Those are fun, right?

"You know if they find out he's here, they'll come for him."  
"...let them try."

They'd tried.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
They'd come in the middle of the day, when they'd be least expected. But it was a stroke of luck for Steve and T'Challa and Bucky: it meant that the doctors needed to bring Bucky out of cryostasis were all in the building and easily summoned. That was the easy part. Bringing Bucky out had been the hard part. It was a brutal, jarring procedure, one that T'Challa remorsefully shook his head at while he watched. They wanted to do this much more slowly, he explained, as Steve white-knuckled the railing just below the one-way glass observation panel and stared unyieldingly at his best friend, spilled onto the floor like so much melted ice. They'd wanted to make this a much more pleasant experience than Hydra had. And here they were only making it worse.

Bucky came out of it horribly. Vomiting, disoriented, weak, he lashed out with his body but the terror was in his eyes. T'Challa had to physically restrain Steve to keep him from charging headlong into the room, insisting that the doctors be allowed to work. Despite their best efforts, Bucky continued to fight like a cornered beast, defensive and all teeth, scrambling back and forth off-balance and ungainly from the loss of his left arm, which he hadn't seemed to have remembered or registered yet. They tried several different languages, several different approaches, but finally, they were forced to admit defeat. None of them dared get within striking distance of the Winter Soldier, even without his feared metal arm.

With the most reluctant, grudging permission he'd ever received in his life, Steve barreled into the room, throwing elbows left and right to part the sea of doctors between him and Bucky. Skidding across the floor on his knees, aware hat Bucky would only react poorly to someone standing over him, he stopped just short of Bucky as a last burst of caution struck him. Tentatively, he called Bucky by name, just to test the waters: and it was like a veil had been lifted. Bucky went to Steve immediately, some clarity returning to his eyes and relief flooding in with it, and allowed Steve to help him up and steady him with a strong arm around his waist. Explaining what was going on as he hurried Bucky from the room, Steve's glares were daggers as doctors eyed him curiously, resentfully, and perhaps moved to step in as he left. The United Nations were angry, he told Bucky, and him breaking into The Raft and pulling Sam, Wanda, Scott, and Clint from prison hadn't done much to calm things down. They'd all been hiding in Wakanda, putting their minds together to help think of a way to break Bucky's triggers, when somehow, Secretary Ross had gotten wind of them. A task force had been dispatched immediately to bring them in, and they were fleeing.

No sooner had Steve gotten Bucky, stumbling and swaying but upright, into a bathroom and thrust decent clothes at him than Bucky collapsed on the floor again, barely making it to the sink before vomiting again. Shivering now, uncoordinated and miserable and all the worse for missing an arm, Bucky struggled into his tac gear with Steve's help. It made Steve regret sending Tony that apology letter and burner phone after they'd fled. It was so easy to be angry, he noted, even as he spoke softly and reassuringly and quietly but insistently helped Bucky gear up as alarm sirens began blaring in the compound, shrieking uncomfortably loudly in their ears and throwing sharp flashes of red light across every surface.

"We are making a stand," T'Challa shouted over the incessant blare, "but we cannot hold them for long without risking inciting open war! We must go!"

Steve wasn't sure how much help Bucky would be in a fight but he figured, if nothing else, having Bucky armed would make him feel better. That way, Bucky could at least defend himself if need be, and the feeling of being a liability or a burden would be slightly lessened. Strapping Bucky's various holsters on, noticing that Bucky refused to meet anyone's gaze and that his own was strangely combining distress and dissociation. Seizing Bucky's hand seemed to bring some of him back, the skin-to-skin contact sparking something in his head; Steve stuffed the second of Bucky's gloves into his pocket, and led Bucky through the red-lit hallways following closely behind T'Challa.

They'd only encountered one group of the task force sent to retrieve them, and they were mercifully easy to dodge by ducking down a side hallway that T'Challa knew about. Packed into a quinjet, pilots already at controls and the engines already running, T'Challa shoved Steve and Bucky aboard and told them simply, "Go. I am sending you to meet your friends. Stay there until I send for you. Go, now!"

It was all Steve could do to bundle Bucky into the jet as the ramp closed behind them and the sleek aircraft took off. The motion hardly helped Bucky, now barely fifteen minutes post-cryo, keep his balance, and Steve found himself balancing for both of them as they made their way into the belly of the jet. The craft was small, but efficient and not uncomfortable. Steve found a seat behind the cockpit that looked inviting enough, and helped Bucky sit before taking the seat immediately next to him, never letting go the entire time.

Bucky helplessly curled up against his side and sobbed for the next half an hour.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commencing fluff.

The pilots T'Challa had supplied them with were experts, and they quickly lost the tail the task force had stuck on them. Still, they circled and doubled back and took roundabout routes and stopped and hovered for several long, tense minutes at a time several times over, just to be sure. By the time they landed, Bucky was much more stable: he'd been awake for almost two hours now, and the strength was returning to his limbs. He'd yet to speak, but the shock seemed to be waning at last. Steve still didn't leave his side, and some of the reasons were selfish: but he didn't think Bucky was ready for that, either.

When they landed, Sam met them at the bottom of the ramp, hands still raised in protection against the powerful gusts of wind from the quinjet turbines. "We're all inside," he told Steve, reaching out even as Steve helped Bucky down the ramp and took a brief look at his surroundings. They were in a remote, secluded area of land just at the edges of the rainforest-jungle-landscape; there was only one house to be seen for miles and miles and miles, and it was situated so that it would not be visible to overhead searches, nor to those casually wandering by. One would need to slice through dense trees and brush and undergrowth to hack their way through; one would need a reason to come here.

Sam settled a hand between his shoulder blades as they walked; grateful for the support, Steve focused on putting one foot in front of the other as the numbness from adrenaline began to taper off. "We do have a visitor," Sam was saying, voice raised but not quite a shout to combat the noise from the quinjet taking off again. Steve momentarily realized that he'd never thanked their pilots; guilt spearing him, he paused to turn and raise a hand to the departing aircraft, hoping that they would see and understand. Then, Sam marched him forward again, clearly not trusting the open. "We have a visitor," he repeated, having been interrupted the first time, "but I think you'll be happy to see her."

Steve's first and foremost reaction had been terror: who was there, how had she found them, what did she want? And then the possibilities ran through his head, and he began to relax. The only way someone could have found this place was if they had been permitted to find it. Who else but a fellow outlaw would have sought them out, and who had the skill to do it but the Black Widow?

Natasha was dressed casually and comfortably, in black leggings and a long, loose black tunic that hung off one of her shoulders. Her combat boots were deceptively stylish, not laced around the ankle but tight around her foot with the laces wrapped to give the footwear more stability. She embraced him readily in the doorway, ushering him along quickly and then doing the same to Bucky. To him, she murmured, "It's damn good to see you;" to Bucky, she said, "Все будет хорошо, Джеймс." When Bucky paused, Steve did too, perpetually glued to his side; seeing him falter, Natasha smiled calmly and added, "Я обещал тебе это однажды. Я все еще намерен сохранить это обещание." Bucky bowed his head, clumps of stringy brown hair falling across his face and obscuring his eyes, but he nodded all the same. Gently, ever-so-gently, resting a hand on his shoulder, Natasha escorted them into the house, strawberry-red hair growing longer these days and remaining perfectly straight.

Clint crushed them both in a three-way bear-hug when he first caught sight of them; Scott offered them food; Wanda immediately began fussing. Sam closed and locked the door behind them, and then went around checking all the rest of the doors and windows. It wouldn't keep any intruders at bay for long, given what they were up against, but a few seconds' warning could be the difference. The false sense of security had its value, too. From the lurch Bucky gave at his side, Steve knew he wanted to do his own sweep of the house, but no sooner had Bucky taken a single step forward than he had to stop again, his fingers clamping down on Steve's shoulder in a frighteningly-painful grip.

"Easy, easy," Clint reprimanded, sliding in against Bucky's other side and helping Steve walk him to the couch in the next room over, bypassing the kitchen chairs. When given the choice, Bucky usually wouldn't sit in a chair. A part of Steve was grateful for the help, but another part of him flared with jealousy and protectiveness that he knew was dreadfully unfounded. He swallowed the curling, roiling beast down again, and settled for sinking into the sofa with Bucky while Clint took the armchair at right angles to them. "How long have you been up?" he asked, directing the question to Bucky as the armchair creaked lightly under his dense weight. Far from a heavy man, Clint was still muscular, and he wasn't short, either.

Bucky was a long wait. He made two attempts to speak, which were both unsuccessful. Then, he tried to swallow around his parched throat, tried to lick his lips to moisten the cracking skin, and still failed. Finally, on a deep and scratchy inhale, he managed, "I don't know."

Mercifully, as Steve was desperately casting about for the quickest way to get to the kitchen, grab a glass of water, and come back, Natasha appeared with exactly what Steve was looking for. She stood by with endless patience while Bucky awkwardly tried to lean away from Steve to free his one arm, and then wrapped her hands around Bucky's when he accepted the glass and made sure his grip was steady before letting go. When Bucky hesitated again, glancing up at her, Natasha just wordlessly nodded to him-and then Bucky drained the entire glass in one go. "Go slowly," she advised, taking the glass back and filling it again from the sink. "I know you feel like you're about to die of thirst, but I promise you, you aren't. But you will make your stomach upset if you start to eat and drink too soon or do so too quickly."

Steve opted not to ask how she knew so much about coming out of cryostasis.

"T'Challa left us a plan." Sam had reentered the room, arms folded across his chest. His soft baseball tee had blue sleeves that made Steve think of the one he'd worn when they were fighting over the Sokovia Accords for the very first time. Just like then, his face was unusually serious. "There's a false wall in the basement that hides a tunnel. That leads to a hangar about a mile from here, underground. There's two jets there, each programmed with random coordinates. They'll take us to a secondary location, which will be transmitted to T'Challa. He'll meet us there if we need to run. If not, he'll be here tonight."

The enormity of what T'Challa had done struck Steve yet again. He would in fact be indebted to T'Challa for the rest of his life...but he supposed there were worse men to be indebted to.

"What do we do until then?" Steve couldn't help but ask.

"Lay low," Sam replied simply. "Try to keep Scott from doing anything too stupid."

"If you're talking about when the car started growing again in the living room, that wasn't my fault!"

"Who brought the car inside in the first place?!"

"Alright, enough!" Sensing an argument brewing, Wanda interrupted Sam and Scott before they could get too involved in beating on each other. "It's done, it's over. Now, I think we could all use some lunch, yes? Bucky, have you eaten yet?"

As it turned out, he hadn't. Wanda sent Bucky off to the bathroom to wash up while she herded Sam, Clint, and Scott into the kitchen and immediately began ordering them around to help her cook. Natasha sneaked in behind everyone else, snagged a few protein bars and a second glass from the cabinets, and followed Steve and Bucky out of the living room. Then, she took the lead, allowing herself a crooked smile at Steve's lost expression. Having never been in the house before, he didn't know where on earth he was headed.

"Fresh towels are in the cabinet over the toilet," she instructed, showing them into a spacious bathroom with marbled tile on the floors and in the shower and lining the bathtub and forming the countertops and brushed nickel appliances and dark-stained wood cabinetry. "Spare shampoo and soap is under the sink. Toothbrushes in the top drawer on the right. Couple extra shirts and underwear in the bottom drawer."

Having been seated and resting for a few minutes had helped Bucky significantly; Steve felt comfortable just leaving a hand on him to turn to Natasha with awe and wonder and gratitude filling him as he noted, "You knew we'd be here sooner or later."

"We'd figured," Natasha admitted, shrugging one shoulder. "And we're quite glad to have you."

Despite Bucky's weak protests, Steve refused to leave while he showered. Even when Bucky huffed and insisted that Steve couldn't do anything useful here, Steve mulishly refused to accept it, and instead camped out sitting cross-legged on the floor leaning against a section of smooth cabinets free of knobs or handles for opening. Bucky finally sighed, shook his head, and let it go, and Steve was unspeakably relieved to see some of _Bucky_ in that exchange. He had to furiously tamp down the urge to spring back to his feet and help when Bucky struggled to one-handedly remove all of his gear...but he felt it was better to let Bucky try, to figure out how to do things with only one arm. If he became overwhelmed, he could help, but for the moment, it appeared that Bucky was managing.

As it so happened, the only thing Bucky finally admitted defeat on was washing his hair. Steve heard more than saw him constantly struggling (because the glass door to the shower was textured, and allowed him nothing more than a hazy silhouette. He felt odd looking anyway, and had politely averted his gaze when Bucky managed to fully strip. It hardly seemed to bother Bucky, but he supposed that was part of what made it feel so uncomfortable to him.) And then, there was the thump of a heavy bottle being firmly set aside, and the water shut off. Moments later, Bucky was snatching up the towel he'd left just outside the door and roughly toweling off.

"Didn't manage to get my hair done," he grunted, stepping out of the shower awkwardly holding the towel around his waist while he kicked the shower door closed. "But I probably smell a hell of a lot better anyway."

"Do you _want_ to get your hair done?" Steve blurted out, already climbing to his feet even as he wondered why he was so eager to help. Bucky gave a crooked, ungainly shrug, and took a quick glance at himself in the half-fogged mirror.

"I mean...eventually...most important thing right now is probably a comb..."

And if the prospect of being able to help wasn't so appealing to Steve! Steadfastly ignoring the way his heart jumped a little bit and then cringed when he beheld the ruined remains of Bucky's left arm, Steve swallowed down any hesitation and decided to just _do._ "C'mere," he said, coming to stand by the sink closer to the shower and motioning Bucky over with one hand. Bucky looked apprehensive and amused at the same time, somehow-Steve's chest abruptly constricted as he wondered what Bucky was thinking about that made him so distrustful. "Find a place to sit," Steve instructed, retrieving the abandoned bottle of shampoo from the shower and almost shivering at the touch of cooling water across the bare soles of his feet. Just the flesh memory was enough to take him back to the war, the cold and rainy European fronts where, every time he stepped in a puddle, fresh rainwater would seep into his boots and chill his soaked feet and drenched socks anew-

He forced himself to focus on Bucky. Here and now. It was a strangely intimate thing, to be standing there working suds through Bucky's hair while Bucky sat on the closed toilet lid, the tangled lengths passing roughly through his hands. Sometimes, he would stop to work out a particularly large knot, and he caught himself toeing open a bottom cabinet wondering if there was conditioner anywhere to be found. There was, in an orangey-yellow bottle that smelled like fruit and white flowers. It was probably Natasha's. Steve used it anyway.

Bucky was oddly silent. Steve wanted to ask him what was going through his head, but the tension he could feel in Bucky's neck whispered that it was better to leave that stone unturned.

Rinsing Bucky's hair was simultaneously the worst and the best part. It was terribly difficult to try to get all of the shampoo and conditioner out just awkwardly leaning into the sink, but when they were done, Bucky pointedly shook his head to get the clumps out of his face and sprayed Steve with an impressive amount of water. Laughing, yelling, backpedaling, Steve tripped over the rug and stumbled but somehow kept his feet. Both of them laughing now, Steve toweled off Bucky's hair with a random hand towel he'd swiped. They each drank a glass of water Natasha had brought and ate one of the protein bars. The rest, Bucky stowed in one of the cabinets. "Midnight snack," he shrugged, and Steve's heart ached again but he opted to take the words at face value. He got Bucky a clean shirt from the drawer Natasha had pointed out, and took his own quick shower while Bucky dressed. In another ten minutes, they were downstairs in the kitchen, sharing a meal with their friends.

It was the most at-home Steve had felt in decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are from Google. I know they're shit but I also don't know how to make them right.  
> Все будет хорошо, Джеймс. Everything will be fine, James.  
> Я обещал тебе это однажды. Я все еще намерен сохранить это обещание. I promised you this once. I still intend to keep that promise.
> 
> This is just a cute, aimless little thing I'm throwing together. Just making it up as I go along. Comments give me fuel to maaaaaaybe start steering.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated to reflect upcoming chapters. I think I have everything written, so it should all be up pretty quickly.

T'Challa arrived that evening. In the dead of night, alone save for a handful of bodyguards and doctors in a seemingly-equal mix, he still paused to knock on the door before entering, even though they all knew he'd been seen coming and no one would deny him entry.

"I am glad to see that you are all safe," he began, after Steve led him into the living room and dragged in a few chairs from the kitchen so everyone had a seat. He and Bucky had been up-it was some ungodly hour, around two o'clock perhaps, but they had been up. Bucky couldn't sleep, so Steve couldn't, either. Upstairs, someone was stirring, or maybe someones; the rest of the outlawed Avengers had probably heard the voices downstairs and were now sneaking down to see what was going on.

"All thanks to you," Steve immediately rebuffed. "I-we-can't thank you enough for what you've done for us."

T'Challa's smile was kind, but steely. His voice was the same when he spoke. "I hold no debt in my heart," he stated simply. "You owe me nothing. Not even for this." Rising in one smooth, fluid motion, turning away from them for a moment, T'Challa called the attention of everyone in the room. And when he motioned to one of the doctors at the fringes of the room, Steve's adrenaline spiked, and it was only then that he took notice of the large box that the woman held, solid and thick and heavy and covered by a drape of dark cloth-

T'Challa pulled the cloth and the lid off simultaneously as soon as the woman was within arm's reach, and Steve did not begrudge him the flourish once he caught sight of what rested within the box. Rising slowly, heart pounding in his chest, Steve was utterly transfixed by the sight of T'Challa's gift. It was a world, it was unimaginable, it was generous beyond his wildest dreams, it was priceless, it was...

"Bucky," Steve gasped, unable to tear his gaze away. "It's..."

"I can't accept this." Bucky sounded so hollow, so dead, that it was enough to pull Steve out of his trance-like awe and bring his focus back around. As quick as he was to scold Bucky and talk some sense into him, T'Challa still beat him to it.

"My friend, do not forget...if not for me, you would have gotten away in Romania." Voice incredibly kind, T'Challa set the lid and the cloth aside and moved to sit on the couch next to Bucky. Close enough not to be ignored, but far enough that the little twitch Bucky gave could still have been a shiver or a balance correction and not a flinch or a recoil. "If I had not interfered, you never would have been captured. You never would have had to hear those dreadful words again. Your friends would not have had to sacrifice themselves and their freedom for your safety. You would have not lost this-" he paused here to tap the ruined stump of Bucky's old arm, the raw ends cleaned up but still exposed in places- "I hold no delusions that I am not at least partially responsible for this. I am aware that I have caused you pain. Now, please allow me to rectify it."

With T'Challa's words, Bucky seemed somewhat less reluctant. He dared to look at T'Challa's gift now, sleek and black and unmarked. Bucky could leave his own mark on it, Steve realized, or none at all...but he would be free of the dramatic steely flash and the blood-red star on his shoulder. The new arm was shaped and weighted exactly like the old one, so the adjustment period would be significantly less, but the plates were smaller and tighter, suggesting a smoother motion and more dexterity.

"Can...can we-?"

Bucky had drank several gallons of water since coming out of cryo, but his throat was still scratchy and rough. Steve figured it was from disuse. T'Challa paid it no mind. "Of course," he replied easily, apparently understanding Bucky's unspoken request. His empathy was welcome-Bucky was not just physically uncomfortable for the unbalance, but worried and anxious about not being able to defend himself or his friends with only one arm. "We can sedate you, if you would prefer. You and only you can know if bad memories will surface."

Steve turned back to Bucky again, and, seeing the conflicted look on his face, sank into the couch next to him. Just earlier that night, he'd had to rush headlong into Bucky's room when the screaming started, frantically crying out and shaking Bucky to wake him and loosen the grip the night terror had on him. It had taken several long, tense seconds for Bucky to wake up, and Steve had immediately leaped back when Bucky's eyes opened, aware that Bucky could wake up swinging. But instead, Bucky immediately scrambled away, chest heaving like it hadn't since he was only human, eyes wide and liquid and so heartbreakingly _afraid_ that Steve climbed onto the bed, dragged Bucky into his arms, and held him tightly enough that not even the world splitting in two could tear them apart. Bucky had clung just as tightly, and everyone else who'd woken up left quietly, unnoticed, seeing that Steve was there. What that nightmare had been about, and whether Bucky remembered it now, Steve didn't know. But did he want to know?

"I want to be awake," Bucky decided. "I'll be okay."

"If you change your mind, you may say so at any time," T'Challa informed him, standing once more and motioning the team of doctors over. Mercifully, they were dressed plainly, in mostly business attire with dress pants and button-down shirts. Some of them blended right into the bodyguards, also dressed in inconspicuous civilian wear. Steve knew the illusion was created on purpose, to throw off anyone with less-than-honest intentions. A trick to snare anyone who thought to attack. But it was the lack of lab coats that hit Steve the hardest; it flooded him with such a sense of relief on a multitude of levels. "We brought everything from a mild anti-anxiety to full anesthesia. You are welcome to anything at all."

"Thank you."

Steve briefly wondered if Bucky was as afraid of the sedative as he was of the pain. Slinging an arm around Bucky's waist, pulling him in tight against his side, Steve realized quickly that he'd only be in the way and settled for winding his arm around Bucky's as T'Challa stood up, stepped away, and allowed his doctors the room to work. Bucky's stare was direct, unwavering, and focused; Steve knew that stare, and knew it didn't precede anything good. How much Bucky could control himself from here remained to be seen.

The doctors removed the t-shirt Bucky had thrown on after his shower, and Bucky had to let go of Steve briefly to get it off. One of them, an older, gentle-looking man, offered Bucky a blanket; knowing that cold was a trigger for Bucky, Steve draped the blanket over his back and chest and right shoulder, only for Bucky to poke his arm back out to slide it behind Steve and lean into him. With his head resting on his shoulder, Bucky closed his eyes and tightened his grip on Steve. The doctors let them fidget for another minute before removing the foam-padded wrap from the remains of the shoulder of the arm and truly settling down to work.

The contact didn't seem to bother Bucky. The doctors, a combination of male and female, were respectful and gentle with their touch, often speaking to Bucky both to inform him of what they were doing and so he wouldn't be startled by a sensation he hadn't seen coming. But he jumped badly when one of the doctors started up a miniature hacksaw to cut away the remaining plating to expose the inner workings of the arm, resulting in a collective gasp-and-leap-back. Flinching away, apologizing, Bucky crowded deeper into Steve, as if holding onto him all the tighter would keep him from scaring the doctors again. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," a strong-looking, leonine woman assured him. "Perhaps we need a signal for you to let us know when you are becoming distressed to the point that you would like to stop. Do you have enough warning before your panic attacks that this would work?"

"Yes," Bucky responded instantly, latching onto a method of control he could use. Steve shot the woman a grateful look over the top of his head.

"Red-yellow-green seems simple and intuitive enough, if that works for you," she continued, idly resuming her work on Bucky's arm as if they were chatting over dinner. "Green is good to go, yellow is slow down or take a break, red is hard stop. Is that agreeable?"

"Perfect."

Steve settled one hand at the nape of Bucky's neck as the doctors resumed. He knew from many late nights in Brooklyn that Bucky carried most of his tension close to his spine, high up. It proved no different now. Steve set to work on a difficult knot, and Bucky sighed out, closed his eyes, and tried to block out the sounds and sensations that were still reminding him of what was going on. Helplessly lost and hopelessly flustered, Steve resigned himself to passivity.

"Hey."

Bucky must have heard his frustrated sigh. The grumbled little interjection was enough to shake Steve right back out of it, though: in the blink of an eye, all of Steve's attention was one hundred percent on Bucky again. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize for things that aren't your fault."

Steve's relief at hearing the slightest hint of a Brooklyn drawl to Bucky's tone was second only to the relief of seeing the doctors finally hoist the ruined shoulder piece away from Bucky's body. At last, Bucky was truly separated from the last of Hydra's meddling! _Or was he,_ a doubtful little voice whispered in the back of his head. _Zhelaniye, rzhavyy, semnadtsat, rassvet, pech, devyat..._

"Are you in any pain?" one of the doctors asked. The closest one, she was a wiry woman, tall and slim, with firm but gentle hands and a similar demeanor.

"Some," Bucky sluggishly responded, a bit delayed and without lifting his head from Steve's shoulder.

"We can block the nerves or we can administer a local anesthetic," she offered, but Bucky was immediately shaking his head. The tension Steve felt suddenly coiling in Bucky's muscles wasn't visible, but he certainly felt it. What was Bucky afraid of-the medication itself, the people administering it, the effects it may or may not have, the ways it had been used in the past-?

"Just do what you need to," Steve encouraged when the doctors hesitated and looked to each other in silent conference. Their reluctance didn't dissipate a bit at his nudge. "He knows his body. And I know him. I'll know if he's painful."

"Will you tell us?" the doctor pressed, raising an eyebrow in an expression that was full of doubt.

"Yes." In a way, their disbelief unnerved him: did they really think he would allow Bucky to suffer?

"We want to honor his feelings, but we also do not want him to associate pain with us...or with you."

Ah. Steve breathed out the little bit of air he didn't know he'd been holding as he realized his misunderstanding. They hadn't been under the impression that he would allow Bucky to suffer, they were wondering if he would prioritize Bucky's pride above everyone's safety. "Only Bucky can tell you if that's the way it's going," Steve decided, after another pause to mull over the best response. "But I will tell you if he's painful." It occurred to Steve then that pain and panic likely went hand-in-hand for Bucky, and panic probably meant shutting down completely and dissociating or lashing out spectacularly. Neither option was preferable over the other, but Steve supposed that, with dissociation, fewer people got hurt. Except for how much worse it was for Bucky, in the end...

The doctors finally seemed to take him at his word. Changing their gloves for fresh pairs, they cleaned Bucky's shoulder and then the inside of the metal attachment. The appendage had been a twisted fusion of a prosthetic and a join replacement: Bucky's own shoulder was still intact, though heavily scarred, and the bones were reinforced with the same metal of his arm. Steve felt physically ill watching then as the doctors began reattaching the cables that connected Bucky's muscles and tendons to his prosthetic, and was forced to turn away; Bucky curled into him tighter, whether from pain or fear of rejection, Steve didn't know. It made him squeeze Bucky's hand, just once, to remind him that he was there and that wasn't changing.

Bucky only scared them once more: when one doctor stood on either side of him and braced his shoulder while two more popped the shoulder of the arm into joint. Then, he jumped at the loud, metallic _snap!_ badly enough that the doctors jumped as well, and Steve clamped his hand down on the back of Bucky's head. Only Bucky's hand grabbing his opposite wrist grounded him enough to ease the pressure; Steve suggested, "Give him a moment," and the doctors were only too happy to oblige.

When the doctors had finished, they backed off mercifully quickly to give Bucky some space to breathe. Bucky didn't really move; but his breathing was still stable, and his body didn't feel like a live bomb about to explode, so Steve opted not to push for the moment. "Thank you," he told the doctors and T'Challa, putting as much emotion as he appropriately could into it. "This means...the world to us."

T'Challa's smile was every bit as warm as he had been. "Captain Rogers...Sergeant Barnes." Bucky actually raised his head at the address, and Steve felt his heart swell with pride and affection as Bucky sat up and squared his shoulders.

"We are, all of us, privileged to be able to honor your service."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments inspire me to post more and bake cookies.


	4. Chapter 4

For the fourth night in a row, Steve found himself in the bathroom at four o'clock in the morning holding Bucky's hair as Bucky vomited with terrifying force into the toilet.

This was much better than he usually was coming out of cryo, Bucky had admitted during a reprieve in the horrible bouts of nausea. Hydra had gotten around the side effects by not feeding him, and instead supplying his nutrition intravenously, along with another cocktail of drugs to help his body come back from the freeze-thaw cycle. The faster he came out of it, the worse it was: and while Hydra had added some anti-nausea to his IV and been home free, Bucky had no IV and therefore needed to eat food and therefore also couldn't get any of the medication he usually did and also woke up so much faster this time and...

It wasn't T'Challa's fault, Bucky hurriedly explained, and he held no such delusions in his head about that. Tonight they were finally seeing some improvement, so Bucky reckoned they were about through the worst of it. "First twelve hours are fine," he told Steve as they sat on the floor against the wall, both of them exhausted beyond words. "Then the GI upset starts. Cramps, aches, nausea, vomiting. The vertigo doesn't help. It was always like this coming out of cryo. But before, I had an IV and an electrical hard reset that negated everything."

"Christ, Bucky," Steve gasped, wanting to tell Bucky to stop but not having the heart to do so. He'd seen the footage Natasha had leaked when Insight fell; he'd also seen the evidence of it in various safehouses and bunkers as he tore through what remained. The memories made his blood boil and his heart scream, and the result was an odd combination of sadness and fury that made him want to rip things apart even as the tears obscured his vision.

"You wanna know what it was like the first time I did this on my own?" And if Steve didn't know better, he'd swear there was a _chuckle_ in Bucky's voice- "Couldn't keep anything down for nine days. But I had no choice, so I kept trying to keep food down. I was really only half there at that point. Programming told me self-preservation, and go find a handler. I said fuck the handler, but let's keep the self-preservation. I really only came to a couple days later. Nine fuckin' days in total. Nine days, Stevie. Throwing up, shitting, it wasn't pretty. Brain was blown to hell, I didn't know up from down. I found an abandoned spot, stocked up on provisions, and settled in to wait it out. Once I stopped puking, I moved on. Managed to keep some bread down that night. Once that sat well, moved on. Chicken and rice for a while. Soup. Anything. Eventually I got used to food again. And the rest of me came back in little pieces, here and there. I got by on the lizard part of my brain for a while, just keeping myself alive until I started remembering. Wrote everything down, just in case."

"You wrote _everything_ down?" Steve questioned, incredulous. He remembered Bucky having small handwriting way back in the day, and he wondered, with a pang of bitter nostalgia, if it was still the same.

"Everything. Writing helped it stick. Hid all the notebooks in a bag under the floorboards when I got done with them. Piled up a ton of notebooks in three years."

Steve's heart leaped as he remembered Bucharest. Trying desperately to warn Bucky of the incoming special ops team, helping him fight his way out, the stab of fear as Bucky easily brushed him aside, slammed him into the floor, and drew back a fist, the sheer bewilderment when Bucky withdrew a backpack from the hole in the previously-seamless floorboards, and the determination Bucky had displayed when he chased that backpack out the window-it all made sense now. Bucky had been chasing the one link he had to his identity. He was literally chasing himself out that window. Nothing could be more important to a man who had forgotten for so long.

And then Steve remembered the notebook he'd pulled the from the top of the fridge. The one with his picture taped into it. It was a newer notebook, one without much in it. What was going through Bucky's head when he'd started that one? "Did...did you have more about me...than just the couple pages in the one book?"

Bucky got the oddest look on his face then: something like disappointment he'd expected, but still welcomed anyway for its echo of something long past. It was strange, and unreadable to Steve, but Bucky looked almost blissful. "Stevie...you got three whole books to yourself." And then Bucky had turned around and the vomiting had started again, and Steve scrambled to his feet and grabbed Bucky's hair just in time. At this point, all Bucky was doing was dry-heaving and spitting up bile, but sometimes he would heave up whatever water they'd made him drink that his body hadn't had the chance to absorb yet.

The fifth night was far more pleasant in that there was a blessed break in the sickness. On the other hand, Steve and Bucky hardly got any time to themselves that day-they slept it all away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're happy and you know it clap your hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nutty weekend. Much delay. Such busy. So craze.

"I'm not the same, Steve."

It was a conversation Steve had been dreading, but known that they'd needed to have. Exhaling, as slowly and as well-controlled as he could, he wrapped both hands around his warm mug of coffee and seated himself at the kitchen table where Bucky was still picking at the last bits of his breakfast. With his hair even longer, long enough to be tied back now, and a bit less stubble as a result of shaving a few days ago, Bucky looked...perhaps not nearly as different as he felt, but to someone like Steve, the difference was still jarring.

"Do you want to be?"

It was as good a place as any to start. The chair scraped over the tiled floor as Steve scooted in, sliding the coffee across the table to rest a few inches away from the edge. Bucky huffed a sigh in and out through his nose, eyed his plate, and made for the orange juice instead.

"Yes and no. Kinda wanna be...also not sure if I can be."

Honest and straightforward. At least that much hadn't changed. Bucky's perspective was fair, logical, and reasonable. Steve could appreciate that. "I"m not the same either," he admitted, offering Bucky a wan, drawn attempt at a smile as he finally raised his gaze to meet Bucky's again. "I mean, less so than you...I mean, I understand why you'd..." Emitting a single nervous chuckle, Steve shook his head and found himself staring out the sliding glass door that led to the little deck out back. Pulling in a deep breath, Steve forcibly cleared his mind and made himself start over. "What I'm trying to say is that I can appreciate how hard this is for you, and that first and foremost I want you to be happy. So as long as you're okay...I'm okay."

The words, stumbling and awkward as they were, still dissipated a bit of the tension around Bucky's eyes and mouth. It began to unknot the ball of tension coiled in Steve's gut, and it lessened the weight of the anxiety in his chest. "Well...thanks. Can't really make many guarantees for myself right now. I think I'm doing pretty good, all things considered." It was Bucky's turn to pause to stare out the back door now, and they both watched in mild curiosity as a large, black bird that was unlike anything they had ever seen before flew a couple circles around the deck before flittering away again. "One thing you don't have to worry about, though...I'm not going anywhere. I still remember you. Always have. It was the one thing they couldn't ever get me to really give up."

As much as he felt like a sadist for it, Steve couldn't help the rush of relief that swept over him at Bucky's admission. "That means the world to me." Even though it shouldn't. Or should it?

Bucky's smile was crooked, but genuine. "Well, thank god for that, Rogers, 'cuz I'd hate to have fought those bastards for seventy years all for nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me focus.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited Stony.

The next day, Steve's phone rang.

He nearly drops it in shock as he recognizes the number coming up. It was the burner phone he'd sent to Tony after he broke his friends out of The Raft and subsequently fled the country. The one accompanied by an apology letter that was really only half-apologetic, and programmed with a single line to dial out that would let Tony dial, but wouldn't let him see the number and couldn't be traced from either end. Steve wanted to forgive, but he wasn't stupid, and Hydra's resurgence had made him cautious.

Bolting to his feet, understanding that this was not a call to take in front of everyone else, Steve quickly realized as he gracelessly fought his way free of his chair at the breakfast table that he wasn't going to get far. He made it to the entryway between the kitchen and the living room before he had to stop. After fumbling with his phone for several eternal seconds, struggling to get it in hand securely enough to swipe right and accept the call, Steve's face was white and his voice was shaking as he answered, "H-Hello?"

"Capsicle."

Because of course Tony couldn't make this easy. He had to be as infuriatingly unchanged as possible, throwing Steve for yet another loop because this _should_ have been awkward and it _should_ have been painful because he _should_ have been different. Things were different between them, why wasn't Tony acting like it-?

"You still there, Capsicle?"

Tony's snark and the inquisitive glances from everyone else at the table jarred Steve enough that he could spit something out. "Uh...um, yeah...Tony, I, uh-"

"Alright, we're gonna be here all day if you keep talking. Or, trying to. Anyway, I wanted to see where you were at, how things were going, when we could get lunch and catch up."

By now, everyone else in the kitchen had noticed Steve's blanched face and shaking limbs and stumbling speech and had turned their attention to him, leaning against the entryway to the kitchen and stared unseeingly out the window like it somehow held answers. What did Tony want? Why was he being so nonchalant? What was the purpose of all this, why now? "I...Tony, you know we can't just-"

"Ah, God, see, that's the problem with you, Cap, always looking at what you can't do. Ever think that your approach is all wrong?"

He had to get away. Just the single glance he'd spared the rest of the table had shown him a variety of worried, anxious faces, with the exception of Bucky, who could probably hear the other end of the line because he just looked plain furious...but also guilty. So, so, so guilty. And angry about it. Turning, bolting from the kitchen, Steve took the back stairs two at a time as he raced to the bedroom he and Bucky had semi-commandeered when they first arrived. "Tony, it's not that simple," he finally said as he turned around and shut the door, hesitating before throwing the flimsy lock. All he wanted was the false sense of security and safety it offered. "I can't just...drop everything, leave everyone, go running back to you-"

"Once more, with feeling: that's the problem."

Oh.

Flabbergasted now, Steve backed up painfully slowly, feeling like his limbs were fuzzy at his periphery and not as much under control as he would have liked them to be. Feeling like lead weights, his feet somehow shuffled him backwards to the bed he and Bucky shared now, the only thing that staved off the nightmares. Head in his free hand, phone pressed to his ear with the other, Steve folded himself in half and gingerly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the plush mattress covered in dark grey silk sheets. They were beautiful, and the lavishness of them made Steve uncomfortable, but Bucky had gleefully rolled around in them their first night, so Steve considered them claimed.

"Tony...I don't know what else I can say here. I felt like there was too much between us before, that was the whole reason I broke it off, and now-"

"God _damn_ it, Rogers, you could have just told me the truth!" Tony sounded so angry that Steve could hear the hurt, and as much as it made his lungs constrict and his heart scream, he refused to acknowledge what Tony was talking about until the other man verbally rammed it down his throat. "You could have _told_ me it was because of him!"

"Tony, it's because it wouldn't work!" Steve barked, hackles rising at the mention of Bucky. "I called the whole thing off long before I knew he was still alive! You're just too bitter and proud, and don't know how to handle the fact that I actually broke it off with you!"

"No, I'm just really pissed off that our entire...everything...was a lie!"

"I was pretty honest with you when I told you that I was in a rough spot and wasn't ready for anything, but you kept coming onto me, assuring me it would work-!"

"I was willing to try for you!"

"Guilting me into a relationship I wasn't ready for isn't trying!"

"And what about now?!" Tony's voice had risen to nearly screaming levels; Steve had to peel the phone away from his ear to turn the volume down as Tony raged, and he struggled to ignore the forgotten affection that was being churned up. Yes, he cared for Tony, on many levels...but it had never been what Tony wanted or needed. The more time he spent with Tony, the more he realized he thought of him as a friend...and the one he'd thought of as more than a friend was still out there, begging to be rescued. And Tony's parents...well, Tony's deep-seated loathing for Steve had begun young, with his perceived neglect by his father's chasing after the super-soldier. Which had apparently vanished after a proper getting-to-know-each-other time. Which had resurfaced with a vengeance when Steve admitted that he wanted to break things off. Which was only fueled by the revelation that Bucky had been the one to kill Tony's parents, and Bucky was the one that Steve had wanted all along-

"I didn't have to call you now, Rogers! I could've just handed this phone over to Ross and let him track you down and put down your boyfriend like the rabid dog he is! But I _didn't._ I'm talking to you now, because I didn't want that! I wanted you!"

"Giving the phone to Ross wouldn't have done any good." Tony's words scored deep cuts into him, and though Steve was loathe to admit it, he felt them prickling and burning and aching. It made him want to throw it all back in Tony's face, to see if he could do the same kind of damage, and maybe more. The strikes against Bucky were entirely out of line, and only poured gasoline onto the roaring fire. Steve knew he wouldn't be able to maintain his control if he acknowledged that part of the discussion, though, he refrained from firing back so personally for the time being. "It's encrypted. You can't view the number, and the call can't be traced."

Tony's laughter came through the line in brutal clarity. "You think I can't decrypt it, Rogers? Do you know who you're talking to?!"

Steve had a lot of faith in Natasha's programming abilities. And Bucky's. And T'Challa's. But that taunt struck entirely too close to home, hitting all of the doubts and fears that kept him up at night. And suddenly, the phone call was just too much to take, and Steve's worries overwhelmed him. He had to get off this call.

"If all you wanted to do was yell at me and make me feel bad, you succeeded. If you were trying to trace this call, you would have failed. But I'm done giving you chances to do both."

"I'm trying to make amends, Cap. You of all people should be into it! Always spouting off crap about how I need to forgive your _Bucky_ because 'it wasn't his fault.' That's bullshit! And I-"

"Good bye, Tony."

It felt so final, and hitting the red button to disconnect the call made it all come crashing down around his ears. For the first few seconds after he hung up, Steve was just numb. Still in shock. Just sitting there, staring with eyes unseeing at the back of the door. Steve couldn't believe some of the things they'd both said, and here, of all places! The bed he and Bucky shared. Not like that, of course, not yet-it was too soon, too much had changed, they couldn't just pick up where they'd left off, these things took time-but it felt sacreligious and cruel all the same. The emotions tore at Steve like claws, ripping into him until it was entirely too much and needed a physical outlet but he was frozen and then the tears came and-

The next few minutes were blank. Nothing but white noise and his own screaming brain telling him that Tony would betray him, the programming would crack, they'd find them here and tear it all apart. The worst played through his mind over and over again: Bucky caged and locked away, everyone else imprisoned on The Raft again, with double the security so Steve couldn't break them out again, and Steve himself, on the outside, left alone just to grind the guilt and helplessness in. Everything came flooding back in full force, gripping him with iron strength even he couldn't break. For several long minutes, all Steve had was the sensation of doom and helplessness, and all he wanted to do was _scream_ even as he felt utterly frozen.

Slowly, though, ever so slowly, it began to fade. He was able to clench his fingers into a fist and then relax them again; he was able to shuffle his feet a bit. Then he could shift his weight, and then he could move his limbs, and finally, he could raise his head. A glance at his phone told him seven minutes had passed, and it simultaneously felt like seven seconds and seven lifetimes. Steve knew this wasn't how Bucky panicked, but he didn't know there were so many different ways to do so. How strange that panic attacks varied from person to person, and none of it so far had been the "rocking back and forth in a corner" stereotype he'd always heard about...

When another three minutes had passed, he figured he'd been gone long enough. There was nothing he could do. If Tony turned the phone in, he turned it in. If the programming cracked, it cracked. If they were found here, they would fight, and escape, and start over someplace else. They would succeed. They had to. They had no other choice. Stopping in the upstairs bathroom on his way back down, Steve splashed his face with cold water to take some of the redness out and steeled himself before heading back down the stairs with carefully measured steps. At least he was guaranteed one thing: he wouldn't have to talk about it if he said he didn't want to. They were all really good at letting each other have their space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed my hate fire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this entire story in two days and liked it well enough. Now, after editing and posting, I hate it. Artist probs. Throw tomatoes at me, or just throw canon to the wind and indulge with me.

There were plenty of times that Steve woke up alone. This morning, it seemed, was no exception. Bucky appeared to have sneaked out in the middle of the night again, leaving the bed cold and Steve fitfully tossing and turning. He never slept as well when Bucky left: sometimes he felt like he'd forgotten how to sleep alone.

This morning, though, he went looking. Throwing off the covers with a frustrated groan, Steve noted the time-just after five am-and threw jeans and a t-shirt on to wander downstairs and begin the hunt for one James Buchanan Barnes, armed with a cup of coffee for each of them and a few of the protein bars Bucky'd taken a liking to. Shoving his feet into his sneakers as he ducked out the back door, Steve had a hunch he knew where Bucky was.

As it turned out, the back deck was empty. But the roof wasn't. Scowling up at Bucky, noting the rogueish grin he'd missed so much, Steve couldn't even be angry that he had to abandon the coffee to climb up to meet Bucky. Scrambling up the railing and then the gutter wasn't pretty, but it worked well enough. Bucky would have done a much better job of it, Steve was sure. "You know, it isn't easy to bring you breakfast this way."

Bucky's smile softened slightly, and he took to nibbling a protein bar-the only thing that could be safely stowed in a pocket during a climb-as Steve settled in next to him. "Yeah...sweet of you, though."

"Yeah, well...I guess I haven't changed much."

A shadow fell across Bucky's face then, and Steve instantly knew he'd said the wrong thing. It was clumsy, it was awkward, but it could segue into a conversation he'd wanted to have all week, ever since they got here. He'd been sitting on it since Bucky had gone back under, really. In the interim between when he'd found him again and when he'd gone into back into cryofreeze, they'd been too concerned with staying alive to worry about much else. Now, though, with half of them in hiding and Bucky having been on ice, Steve could think about the gaping hole in his heart and exactly how he wanted to fill it.

"Look...Bucky. I know...things are different. Very different. But I do still want...you. Us. And I know we can't just...pick up where we left off, that's not...how this works, but..." Stopping, shaking his head, setting aside the unopened protein bar he'd been turning and twisting in his hands, Steve decided to lean into the heels of his hands behind him as he raised his face to the rising sun, already coloring the horizon with stripes of pink and orange and yellow and red. "I wanted to...tell you. See how you felt. Just to...put it out there. And I completely understand if you don't feel the same, or need time, or don't want anything to do with me at all, but-"

"Christ, Stevie, you really did take all the stupid with you, didn't you?"

Turned away as it was, Steve didn't see it coming. But he certainly felt it when Bucky placed an impossibly-strong hand on his jaw and _demanded_ that Steve turn his face, and then irresistibly pressed their lips together. Melting instantly, Steve finally breathed out that last little bit, leaning deeply into Bucky's mouth and released a soft whine of relief. They stayed close even when Bucky broke contact, their foreheads pressed together and Bucky's hand still on his cheek. The strength in him was undeniable now, as if it ever had been, but...there was something _other_ in Bucky now. Even as he took soft, shallow breaths and closed his eyes against the onslaught of _everything_ that flooded them.

"I know Tony wants you back."

The remark was so unexpected that Steve almost started; as it was, he barely tamped down the urge, if only because doing so would surely shake off the hand on his cheek and the face pressed to his own. "Well, it's a good thing I don't want Tony back," he stated matter-of-factly, looking to close the issue as quickly as possible.

"Why not?" Steve's heart screamed at the doubt in Bucky, and he was still sitting there, mouth agape, floundering wildly to find the words to reassure him when Bucky added, "I'm...not the Bucky you knew...before. Not the same Bucky you were _with_ before. I still...you're still my everything. But he can give you a hell of a lot more than I can, Steve."

"But he won't." That much, at least, he knew. And a start was something. It got him rolling, and he found the next words easier. "And I don't want anything he has to give. The things I want, he can't give me. Love...loyalty...selflessness. Trust. We-you and I-have been through hell and back together, and never once have we questioned each other. I've never thought for even a moment that you'd leave, and that's something I never had with him. Yeah, we...had something...for a few months. But it was hell, Buck. I never knew if he was coming home, what he was going to be like, how much he'd been drinking, if he cared about my day or whether he was going to ask what I wanted for dinner, or..." Stopping there, realizing he was rambling, Steve slid closer to Bucky and tried to reorganize his thoughts. "He just wasn't _you._ All those little things you do that I can't live without...the way you hum your favorite song while you cook breakfast, the fact that you always ask how my day was first before you say anything about your own, the way you know what clothes I'm running low on and you throw a few in with your load of laundry, the way you're always, always there...Bucky, I can't replace that, nor do I want to. I. Love. You. To the end of the-"

"To the end of the line." And though Steve couldn't see it from this angle, he could hear Bucky's smile, and it made his entire core light up like a thousand butterflies had been unleashed into a beautiful, cloudless, sunny sky. "Yeah...yeah, I know, pal." For a moment, Bucky let them both bask in the relief; then, with significantly less blubbering than Steve did, he broached the heavier topic: "Line looks a little different these days, though."

Steve had to stop himself by reassuring himself that Bucky had already told him he wanted to stay, so the worst couldn't really happen. Otherwise, he would have full-on driven himself crazy in the blink of an eye. "What's different about it now?"

Bucky shrugged one shoulder at him and finally sat back, like he was still so used to having both arms but a part of him was still thinking that he only had one. "Gonna hafta take it slow," he started, apparently trying to ease into it. He was far better at faking it than Steve, though-always had been-so he wasn't awkward about it. "'m never quite sure when I'm okay with being touched and when I'm not...I gotta figure out my own brain before I can share yours...the big stuff, like getting my own head back in order, mostly. I think that's a given. But, little things, too, like I hate sleeping in a bed because it's too soft and I feel like I'm gonna sink straight to the floor. Or, 'Bucky' feels weird, but 'Winter' isn't quite right either." Shrugging again, turning his head to take in the rapidly-approaching dawn, Bucky concluded, "I'm still me, but...I'm also not. Kind of like the caterpillar that goes through the cocoon to turn into a butterfly. They're both the same, but they're not."

"I understand," Steve murmured. At his core, Bucky was still Bucky-but there were parts of him that had been changed forever. Already, Steve could see it: Bucky was colder, stiller, quieter, more reserved. There was a haunted look to him that hadn't been there before, a solemness that implied that he'd taken the world on his shoulders. And while Steve was different, too, he couldn't pretend that he was anywhere near as changed as Bucky.

He could help, though. In little ways. Tackle one issue at a time. Break it all down into manageable chunks. And take things day by day. "So, if not Bucky, and not Winter, what do you like to be called?" It felt appropriate. Bucky was the old version, and Winter was the cocoon-so who was this man sitting in front of him? Some third, final version entirely, Steve was sure, but he still needed a name.

"I like James," he answered thoughtfully, and Steve was surprised it was such an immediate response. "Natasha called me that...back when we knew each other before all this. It always felt familiar enough that it was mine, but far enough away that it could still evolve with me. So..."

"If you want me to call you James, I will," Steve promised. "Just...you might have to remind me a few...thousand...times."

They both laughed at this, and Steve felt the loosening of a knot that had tangled in his chest earlier that morning. Bucky-James-had said it well: "familiar enough to be mine, but far enough away that it could still evolve with me." This was a new beginning, but not entirely starting over, Steve decided. A new chapter, not an entirely new book. This he could handle.

"Hey," Steve softly interjected, when they'd both fallen silent and taken to watching the sunrise again. "Come on down with me, have some coffee before it goes cold."

Bucky- _James_ -hesitated, considering, but not too hard; then, he asked, "What'd you do to it?"

"Nothing," Steve shrugged. "Figure...you used to take it black, and even if you want something now, you can always add, you can never subtract."

"True." James stood up then, powerful and lithe and fluid in movement, and Steve rose to join him. Together, they shimmied down from the roof and settled on the railing of the deck, coffee mugs between their hands and budding sunlight on their faces. The day was young enough that, even though it was humid, it wasn't hot-the trees and the abundant moisture actually helped cool everything off at night.

"I do still like my coffee black."

It was the only thing James said until the sun had finished climbing up and over the horizon and Steve laid a hand between his shoulder blades and coaxed him back inside to begin their day in earnest. But it was enough. Plenty to reinforce that, for everything that had changed, there were some things that remained comfortably the same. As a new day broke over Wakanda, Steve took heart in the fact that the earth continued to turn, the sun continued to rise and set and repeat, and Bucky-James-was still with him.

_Rassvet_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all fed my hate fire something fierce last chapter. Do it again. XD
> 
> Nah, I finally have access to HBO so I've discovered the magic of Game of Thrones and I'm bingeing hard. Throw your favorite ships at me, spoilers be damned. Go!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me happy-squee.


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